


Rage and a Spider’s Web

by EWM



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Anger, Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016) Whump, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Hurt No Comfort, Jack trying to help and failing, Mac filled with rage, Mac hurt and bitter, Past references to torture, Poor Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EWM/pseuds/EWM
Summary: I'm not sure what messed up bit of my brain this came from.I decided to be depressing and make some angry Mac, happy whumping and happy reading
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	Rage and a Spider’s Web

He slammed his hand into the mirror, it made a horrible crunching sound as flesh made contact with glass. The spidery white cracks spread out a like a malformed spiders web. Slowly Mac removed his hand, four red blotches remained where his knuckles had made contact. Although the glass had broken, it did not shatter totally, the pieces remained in place inside their wooden frame. He could now see his face, such as it was in 50 different twisted iterations. He put his now shaking blood covered hand on the sink, little crimson trails began to flow down his fingers. His other hand gripped the porcelain, the whites of his knuckles showing.

Mac shut his eyes in a desperate attempt to calm himself, but he was instantly back there. He could see it all the faded colours and the dust, the cold metal chair, he could feel the jagged circles digging into his wrists, he could even smell it. A horrible combination of dried blood and sweat mixed with their aftershave which he almost gagged on as they came so close, so terrifyingly close. Just as the blow was about to strike, as it had done so many times since he had left that place, Mac opened his eyes and there he was back in the bathroom again, still shaking.

Mac screamed, a guttural scream born of rage and frustration, there was no fear in it, just anger, resentment and some deep buried exhaustion. He was alone in his house, there was absolutely no one to hear this tragic sound, if there had been, they might of thought it was a wild animal, trapped and trying to escape. MacGyver removed his hands from the sink, he reached up and pushed a long strand of hair from his face, flicking it behind his ear. His eyes went back to the mirror. He could see his blue eyes and the dark grey circles around them, the thin raised scars that covered his neck and disappeared under his t-shirt. If he felt the back of his head, he could feel them continuing around under his hair. He grabbed the mirror off it’s hook causing some of the glass to fall to the floor, he brought it down on the taps and sink with all his strength; again and again until all the pieces were on the floor and he saw the thin wooden back crack.

Then he threw it across the bathroom, it clanged on the tiling making him jump. Slowly he stepped back, he slid down the wall and sank to the floor ignoring the mess around him. For a little while Mac just stared into space, the whites of the bathroom reminding him of that hell he had escaped from. At one point this would have sent him into a spiral, but now he was just too exhausted, the white walls were at least familiar and in their own perverse way not complicated. Everything outside those white walls was complicated. He brought his hands to his eyes to try and rub some of the tiredness out of them, but discovered that they were bleeding. Small red lines covered his palms, fragments of glass were embedded in his hands, slowly he pulled each them out, staring at the little wounds they left behind. The pain didn’t bother him, it was so minor compared with what he experienced in the last year, it didn’t even register.

After that was done, he eased himself up again trying not to leave a series of dark handprints on the wall. He did not succeed. Mac looked around as if suddenly registering the chaos he had created for the first time. He cursed quietly too himself, no one would mind of course. All the glass would get brushed away and the mess on the walls would be cleaned. They would be more worried about if he’d hurt himself, if he was ‘okay’, ‘how he was doing’. How he’d grown to hate that phrase, that word, it made him shudder and fume in equal measure. He despised the looks on people’s face, the sad eyes and the head tilt. The gestures; the squeeze on the shoulder or the little smile, all meant to give him comfort and remind him that his family was there, that they loved him, that they were all there for him. But all it did was remind him, that he was broken, that he was imperfect, not what he had been and needed to be cared for…to be watched like some rapid animal likely to attack or break down. He was not valued for himself anymore, what he could do for them, what he could fix, he was simply something that needed to be fixed and watched over.

So when everyone returned, the broken glass was gone, the mirror was buried in his garbage and all traces of blood were wiped away. When Jack banged open the door and came onto the deck, he found Mac dozing in the sunshine a book on his chest, his hand wrapped in a new bandage, but there was no trace of the rage and the sadness that had existed two hours ago. It had all been cleaned away at least for now. Dalton eyes travelled over Mac’s sleeping form and picked up on the new bandage. He said nothing, Bozer and Riley came in close behind.

“I got Chinese!”

“I got beer!”

“And I made cake!”

Mac woke up and put on his best smile for them and registered the relief in their eyes. He couldn’t hold back a yawn, but padded over to the table to investigate the many bags of food and drink that had been dumped there. He poked and pulled out the boxes of Chinese, burning his fingers as he was too impatient to wait for forks or chopsticks. Dinner that night was nice, work was not discussed, Mac’s recovery was not mentioned, he managed to make them all laugh, and Riley managed to drop marshmallows onto the fire. Jack in a rare moment of helpfulness cleared away the debris from the table and took to the bin at the side of Mac’s house. He whistled away to himself, a warm coat of beer and food surrounding him. Then he saw the edge of a broken wooden frame, Dalton stared at it for a second buried deep in the garbage, he looked around and then pulled it out. He saw the broken lines of the wood and splintered centre and sighed. He threw it back in the trash and returned to the party.

You wouldn’t know it looking at him, Dalton mused as Mac sat round the fire smiling at some joke. You wouldn’t know how angry the kid was, how much he had gone through. He certainly puts on a good show for everyone. Jack felt so terribly sad at that thought, the very fact that Mac felt he had too. Later in the evening when Mac and Jack were left sipping beer on their own. Dalton made a tentative move to talk

“You going to tell me about that?” He asked gesturing to the bandage

“Nope” Mac responded, his eyes determinedly fixed on the LA lights below

“Because you can, you can always talk to me.”

Mac grunted at this, his mind balked at the pity in Jack’s voice. How he hated being pitied.

“Thanks for the food Jack”

Mac put the beer bottle down on the deck and turned to go, Jack put his hand on his shoulder and watched his boy tense at the touch

“Hoss. Please talk to me”

“Good night Jack.”

Then Mac walked away. Jack sighed and yawned. Part of a being a good soldier was knowing when a fight was lost he thought. He left the deck depositing his own beer on the side table. He didn’t look back at Mac staring into space in his bedroom. He simply let himself out quietly, he got into his car and started the engine. As it sprung into life, Jack started to cry, the revving engine muffled his sobs as he drove away.

**Author's Note:**

> (I'm pretty sure this came from a whump prompt, something about smashing your hand into a mirror, but I can't find where I originally saw it so apologies !! )


End file.
